


Peppermint Tea

by Chocchi



Category: Persona 3
Genre: Emetophobia, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5509835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocchi/pseuds/Chocchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You should have just said you were sick,” Shinjiro says, narrowing his eyes.<br/>“‘M not sick,” Akihiko says, which even he has to admit is a blatant lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peppermint Tea

**Author's Note:**

> (BURSTS IN THROUGH DOOR AT TOP SPEED) GUESS WHO'S DONE WITH THEIR FIRST SEMESTER OF COLLEGE FINALS  
> anyway yeah there's some puking in this so if that's not somethin you're good with then tread carefully

At the first tentative touch to his shoulder, Akihiko just whines quietly and shies away from the contact. His mind is hazy with sleep and exhaustion and illness; all he wants is for this unknown intruder to leave him be so he can try to sleep this off. It’s a clear enough message, or so he thinks-- it must not be, because a second later the hands are on him again, shaking his shoulders more solidly.

“Fuck off,” Akihiko mumbles.

“Get up, idiot,” Shinjiro sighs. He pries Akihiko out of the tight ball he’s curled himself into. Akihiko tries to resist, but his muscles aren’t cooperating. “What have you done to yourself now?”

Akihiko blinks up at him blearily.

“Fuckin’ told Mitsuru….” Shinjiro mutters, more to himself than Akihiko. He sweeps the back of one hand across Akihiko’s forehead. “‘Staying behind to study’ my ass, you wouldn’t stay home from Tartarus to study if someone held a real gun to your head, you ridiculous…”

Tartarus-- that’s right, that’s where the others were supposed to be. Akihiko frowns up at Shinjiro. “Y’r not--?”

“Arisato didn’t want me on the team tonight,” Shinjiro says. He still hasn’t taken his hand off Akihiko’s forehead. Akihiko’s sure he isn’t running a fever, he double checked as soon he’d thought everyone else was out of the dorm, but he can’t get his mouth to form the words and Shinjiro’s still talking anyway. “Koromaru, either. Thought I’d take him out so he could still get some exercise, ‘n’ then we got back and…”

And Akihiko wasn’t bent over a textbook in the lobby like he should’ve been, because why the hell would he have thought Shinjiro was going to come home early?

“You should have just said you were sick,” Shinjiro says, narrowing his eyes.

“‘M not sick,” Akihiko says, which even he has to admit is a blatant lie.

“You’re a goddamned moron,” Shinjiro says. He finally removes his hand from Akihiko’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever. What hurts?”

“Nothing,” Akihiko says, quickly. “‘M just tired, that’s all.”

“Liar,” Shinjiro says. He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed. “What hurts?”

“ _Nothing_.”

“ _Liar_.”

Akihiko is fully prepared to keep the exchange going for as long as it takes for Shinjiro to get frustrated with him and leave, but there’s a creak from the door as Koromaru pokes his head in. They both stop to look at him, and Akihiko winces. Because, of course, now that Shinjiro’s looking down at the floor, he’s going to see--

“Oh, for god’s sake.”

\--The bucket.

“S’just a stomach bug,” Akihiko says, when Shinjiro fails to start in on an angry tirade and instead just stares at Akihiko with judgemental, disappointed eyes. “Nothin’ serious.”

“Yeah, right, because you’re so good at taking a break for the little stuff,” Shinjiro says, leaning over to look at the contents of the bucket, oh, god, why would he do that? “ _Shit, Aki!_ When did this start?”

“Dunno,” Akihiko mumbles.

“Do you even have any fluids left in your body?”

Akihiko makes a vague motion towards his desk, where his water bottle sits mostly empty.

“Well, that’s something,” Shinjiro says, voice edged with exasperation. “Is it just your stomach?”

“Hmm?” Akihiko squirms restlessly, trying to get comfortable against his pillows again. It’s hard-- he’s lost the perfect position he’d managed to wind himself into before Shinjiro came back, where he was as curled in on himself as he could manage without making the nausea even worse.

“Hey, don’t go back to sleep.” Shinjiro snaps his fingers in front of Akihiko’s face, ignoring his incoherent noise of complaint. “The pain, is it just your stomach? Do you have a headache or anything?”

“No,” Akihiko huffs.

“Just throwing up, or--”

“What’re you, a nurse?”

“Don’t be a little shit,” Shinjiro says. “Seriously. When did you start feeling sick?”

“I dunno,” Akihiko repeats. “Beginning of the afternoon, I guess.”

“Should’ve said something.”

“Like you would’ve?”

Shinjiro jostles him with a scowl, but even as unusually gentle as he is it still makes Akihiko whimper and clutch his stomach. Shinjiro makes an aborted noise that probably would have bordered on _fretful_ if he’d let it out.

“Hurts,” Akihiko finally admits, after he’s spent a solid minute convincing his stomach that really, no, it’s fine, he doesn’t need to throw up in front of Shinjiro. It was an exhausting minute, not improved by Shinjiro’s concerned hovering.

“I’ll bet,” Shinjiro says.

“Make it stop,” Akihiko says, knowing it’s nonsensical even as the words leave his mouth. He curls towards Shinjiro anyway, and miraculously, Shinjiro adjusts to receive him, shifting up the bed so Akihiko’s cheek is lying against his thigh.

“I could’ve helped earlier if you hadn’t tried to be a damn hero about it,” Shinjiro replies. Akihiko whines pathetically. “Fine, fine. Let me get up and grab some things, would you?”

Akihiko doesn’t want to. Shinjiro’s thigh is comfortable, and honestly, he’s too sick to care about embarrassing himself by asking him to stay. But if Shinjiro thinks there’s a way to alleviate even a little bit of the nausea-- well. Akihiko is _really_ on board with that. He lets his head loll back onto the mattress. Shinjiro pats his hair, a little awkwardly, and grabs Akihiko’s water bottle off the desk on his way out of the room, Koromaru right on his heels.

“I need that,” Akihiko yelps, bolting half-upright before a surge of nausea forces him back down.

“Calm down,” Shinjiro yells, from the hallway. “I’m just gonna refill it.”

Akihiko flops his head back against the pillows and listens to the even _thud-thud-thud_ of Shinjiro’s footfalls on the way downstairs. He can’t hear anything after the stairs, but he imagines he can-- assumes Shinjiro’s heading for the kitchen, imagines the clunking of cupboard doors being thrown open and closed and the clatter of plates and silverware. It’s a comforting and familiar image, and he’s almost lulled himself back into a doze by the time Shinjiro’s footsteps are coming back up the stairs.

“Should’ve known you’d snooze the second I left,” Shinjiro says, as the door creaks back open.

“Not asleep,” Akihiko grumbles. He _wishes_ he was.

“Uh-huh,” Shinjiro says. Akihiko stubbornly keeps his eyes closed as Shinjiro crosses back to his bedside. There’s a shift and a _clunk_ as Shinjiro sets something down on his desk; Akihiko cracks one eye open and sees a tray, laden with his newly-filled water bottle, a steaming mug, and a small bowl of rice crackers.

“Don’t wanna eat,” Akihiko says, petulantly. He knows he’s being childish, and yet.

“Too bad,” Shinjiro says. “You don’t have to finish them. But you should at least try.”

Akihiko eyes the crackers warily.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Ugh.” Akihiko buries his face in the pillows. Not since lunch, and he hadn’t eaten much then, either.

“You giant baby,” Shinjiro says, but it’s almost approaching fond. He sits back down on the edge of the bed. “Eat _one_ , okay? If it makes you puke, you can tell me you told me so and you don’t have to eat any more.”

“I hate you,” Akihiko mumbles, more to his pillow than Shinjiro. Shinjiro just scoffs. “The mug?”

“Peppermint tea.”

“I don’t drink tea.”

“I know,” Shinjiro says, with a lot more patience than Akihiko probably deserves, “But it’s supposed to be good for nausea.”

“I never knew you were an herbalist,” Akihiko snipes.

“You’re such an asshole when you’re sick,” Shinjiro says. He reaches over to jostle Akihiko again, then apparently thinks better of it and withdraws his hand. “I put a shit-ton of honey in it.”

Because of course out of all the things Shinjiro’s apparently forgotten, the way Akihiko takes his tea isn’t one of them.

“Gimme a cracker,” Akihiko says, shoving himself up onto his elbows. If he’s going to do this, he might as well get it over with. Shinjiro passes him the cracker, and Akihiko starts nibbling on it as reluctantly as he can.

“Slowly,” Shinjiro warns.

“It’s a cracker,” Akihiko says. “How slowly can I possibly eat it?”

Shinjiro rolls his eyes and settles backwards so that he’s leaning back on Akihiko’s legs, watching him carefully. Akihiko wants to tell him to cut it out, but honestly, it’s kind of nice to have Shinjiro fussing over him so much. Even if the sweet cracker isn’t doing much to combat the taste of stale vomit that coats the inside of his mouth.

“How’s it settling?”

“Dunno,” Akihiko says. He’s eaten half the cracker now, and he can’t tell whether the gurgling noise his stomach is making is bad news or it just means he needed to eat something. The look on Shinjiro’s face isn’t exactly encouraging. Akihiko brings the cracker back up to his mouth, starts to nibble on the corner again. Something in his stomach roils and then--

Shinjiro quickly grabs the bucket and shoves it into Akihiko’s range--

_oh, fuck--_

“Shh, shh, shhhh,” Shinjiro is soothing, his hand on Akihiko’s back, but Akihiko is too busy retching into the bucket again to focus on that. Everything hurts, it sucks, his stomach hurts his head hurts his eyes are watering he’s _tired_ he wants this to be _over_ fuck Shinji and his stupid fucking crackers and--

He finally coughs up liquid and crumbs, then spits up more again when he has to watch it splatter into the bottom of the bucket.

“Easy now,” Shinjiro says, cautiously, when Akihiko finally stops retching.

“F-fuck you,” Akihiko wheezes. His entire body is subtly shuddering-- he can only tell because of the steady, solid weight of Shinjiro’s hand over his shoulder blades. “I--” he stops, spits aggressively in an attempt to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. “I hate you so much right now.”

“I know,” Shinjiro murmurs, and Akihiko really does want to hate him but he sounds so fucking apologetic, and he really was just trying to help, wasn’t he? “Try the tea.”

Never mind.

“Fuck you,” Akihiko says again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and trying to dive back into the pillows. Shinjiro catches him by the shoulder and won’t let him turn. “Goddammit, Shinji, I _just_ threw up ‘cause you made me eat and now you want me to--”

“Aki, come on,” Shinjiro says, and it’s not fucking _fair_ , his voice is low and his eyes are dark and serious and Akihiko is already lightheaded from all the throwing up, he can’t deal with this. “It should help with the nausea.”

“You’re full of shit,” Akihiko whimpers. His limbs feel heavy. He doesn’t have the strength to fight Shinjiro off when he hauls Akihiko back to sit upright against the head of the bed, but it also means he has an excuse to glare tiredly instead of taking the mug Shinjiro tries to hand him.

“Don’t be such a child,” Shinjiro says.

“ _You’re_ a child,” Akihiko says, crossly. Shinjiro snorts, shifting the mug into one hand so he can press the back of the other against Akihiko’s forehead again. “What do you think you are, a doctor?”

“I should have gotten you a cold washcloth,” Shinjiro says, ignoring him. He moves his hand up to ruffle Akihiko’s hair before dropping it.

“I don’t have a fever.”

“I know you don’t, but it would probably make you feel better anyway.”

When Akihiko still shows no signs of reaching out to take the mug, Shinjiro rolls his eyes and uses his free hand to grab Akihiko’s hands, one by one, and forcibly wrap them around the mug. He starts to ease his own hands away, and the message is clear: Akihiko can either accept the tea, or dump it all over his own lap.

Akihiko locks his hands around the mug and glowers at Shinjiro.

“Thank you,” Shinjiro says, serenely.

“You’re an ass,” Akihiko says. Shinjiro swings his legs onto the bed and crawls up to sit back against the headboard with him. “It’s leaf-water, how’s it s’pposed to help with nausea?”

“Grouchy,” Shinjiro remarks. “I could go get something else, if you want. I’m sure we have something stronger and more bitter in the kitchen. I could skip the honey this time.”

Akihiko tries to make an angry noise at him, but it catches in his throat and comes out as a pathetic, whiny little rumble instead. He lets his head flop over onto Shinjiro’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

“Hate bein’ sick,” he mumbles.

“I know,” Shinjiro says. He brings his hand up to rub comforting circles into Akihiko’s back again. “It will be over soon.”

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

“Fine, asshole, it won’t be over soon, it’s going to last forever, you’ll never get better.”

Akihiko smiles involuntarily, his eyes still closed. Everything is nicer this way, the light not burning its way through his retinas and Shinjiro a solid, warm presence all along his side. “Jerk.”

“You started it,” says Shinjiro. “Drink your tea and I won’t start looking for things for your headache.”

“How did you kn--”

“If you think you’re subtle, I have bad news for you. Drink your tea.”

Akihiko cracks open one eye, then the other. The light still sucks, but everything seems less blindingly bright with his face mostly tucked in the fabric of Shinjiro’s shirt.

“You’re gonna have to wash this shirt,” Akihiko says, absentmindedly.

“Believe me, we’re gonna wash everything in this room tomorrow.”

Akihiko makes a face at the idea-- he hates having to strip his bed down to wash his sheets-- and lifts his head from Shinjiro’s shoulder to finally, falteringly, bring the mug of tea up to his lips. He sips at it tentatively, lowers it almost immediately because his hand is shaking and he’s in danger of spilling it.

Shinjiro is visibly restraining himself from reaching over to steady him.

“Calm down, mother hen,” Akihiko huffs. Shinjiro frowns at him, but doesn’t take the bait. Akihiko wraps both hands around the mug and brings it back up to his mouth; he manages a longer sip this time, and although his stomach gurgles a little after he swallows, it doesn’t send him diving for the bucket like the crackers did. He sips again. It’s helping to minimize the aftertastes of puking, at least.

Shinjiro makes an inquiring noise.

“It doesn’t make me want to die just to put myself out of my misery,” Akihiko offers, which is about as generous as he thinks Shinjiro deserves right now.

“I’m glad it’s helping,” Shinjiro says, because he’s a _fucker._

Akihiko takes another, even longer sip. Now that a little of the puke taste has been washed down, it’s a little minty, a lot sweet from the honey. It goes down easy and settles warmly in his stomach, the gurgles a little quieter every time he drinks.

...It _is_ making him less nauseous.

“You’re still a jerk,” Akihiko says, leaning against Shinjiro’s shoulder. Shinjiro huffs out a laugh and, to Akihiko’s surprise, lifts his arm to wrap around Akihiko’s back, tucking him in against Shinjiro’s side. Akihiko twists his head to watch Shinjiro stretch for the desk, snagging one of Akihiko’s books. “You’re--?”

“Drink your tea,” Shinjiro says. Akihiko sips at it obediently. “I’m gonna stay here, since you’ve proven you can’t be trusted.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Well, you’re not getting rid of me, so suck it up.”

“Fine, fine,” Akihiko says, like it’s a great inconvenience for him to huddle down under Shinjiro’s arm with his head on Shinjiro’s shoulder and his face pressed up against his neck.

“First you’re mad at me, now you’re a goddamn octopus,” Shinjiro says. Akihiko catches the way his arm tightens around Akihiko’s back, though. “Make up your mind.”

“ _You_ make up your mind,” Akihiko says, muffled into Shinjiro’s collar. “You _always_ blow hot and cold.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do, you asshole.”

Shinjiro scoffs, a burst of warm air that ruffles Akihiko’s hair. “Just let me read, would you?”

“You’re the one who wanted to stay, you get to put up with what I want to talk about,” Akihiko says. But he doesn’t take the argument any further, just sits there and lets the mug of tea and the line of Shinjiro’s body against his radiate heat, warmth spreading from his fingers to his chest to his toes until he’s drowsy with it. He’s leaning almost all of his weight on Shinjiro at this point. Shinjiro’s such a beanpole with his coat off, Akihiko half expects him to topple over from it, but he doesn’t budge an inch-- just leans back against the headboard to get comfortable and adjusts his grip around Akihiko’s back. Every minute or so there’s the rustle of a page turning.

Akihiko’s eyes flutter shut. His lashes brush against Shinjiro’s neck on the way.

“There you go,” Shinjiro murmurs. “Just take it easy.”

“Fuck you,” Akihiko mumbles.

“Nah, I don’t think you’re up for that right now.”

Akihiko snorts despite himself. “You _wish_ I meant it that way.”

“ _Rest_ ,” Shinjiro says, firmly. There’s soft pressure on the top Akihiko’s head-- he’s only half awake anymore, but-- is that Shinjiro’s mouth he feels, curving up in a smile? There’s a solid _thump_ of a book closing, and then the mug is being gently pried out of Akihiko’s hands. “Pick fights with me later when you feel better.”

“Kay,” Akihiko sighs. One of his newly-freed hands somehow, mysteriously, tangles itself in the hem of Shinjiro’s shirt.

“Gonna hurt my back sitting like this,” Shinjiro says, more to himself than Akihiko. The rustle of the book being reopened is the last thing Akihiko registers before he nods off.

When he dreams, it’s bright and sunny and they’re young again, Shinji laughing and smiling as Akihiko throws grass at him, and in the dream, distantly, Akihiko wonders why everything smells faintly of peppermint.


End file.
